Buongiorno, caro Gary, I say in my best Italian accent. It's 6 o'clock. Time for you to get up. Have a nice day.
Thank you, dear Silvia, he says in his hateful, superior voice. I'll be waiting for you again tomorrow.
Every damn morning. How did I get trapped into this?
There's a professional association of mystery shoppers, and the company I worked for was a member. That meant practice guidelines, codes of ethics, the whole nine yards. Mystery shopping gave me a bit of pocket money, fit easily into my schedule, and was fun. It got me to go to different stores, restaurants, offices that I'd otherwise never have visited to engage in a little bit of espionage. I got to pretend to be someone I wasn't--never lying but sometimes misleading, to exhibit an innocent nosiness, make disingenous requests, and, when alone, jot down surreptitious notes on my phone. Some of the situations I saw deserved to be reported, so it felt legit.
When my friend Davida at the business school asked me to help her privately with a research project because she couldn't have enough funding for a licensed company, I thought, why not freelance? How else is she going to get out of the Catch 22 of young academics: no funding without findings, no findings without funding. If caught I could be blacklisted, but how could that happen? I was going to be simple, just a phone survey. I could do it from home. What made it attractive was that made use of something I'm proud of, my flair for accents.
From early on, I could sound like someone I wasn't, an old woman like grandma Beavis, one of the help like Marcie Mae, an Indian like the storekeeper Sajit. I could pitch my voice high or low to capture different registers. I could tell dialect jokes readily switching from voice to voice. My mother was always asking me when I was a girl and she had her friends over for coffee, 'Sarabeth, why don't you show us how a Yankee gives directions,' and I'd stand in the circle of chairs on the lawn, strike a pose, put on a broad Maine accent that I got from an old Bob and Ray recording of my dad's with lots of 'theeeahs' and 'caaaan'ts', and send them into convulsions.
So I was able to make multiple calls to the same place sounding like different people to see if I'd be treated differently. My job was not to press them or trap anyone, but simply to get aggregate data. So, using Davida's script, I presented myself as just a voice, a name, a need and a story: Hello. my name is ... and I'm looking for a financial advisor.
It was a big project-David was a good friend--involving calls to nearly a hundred independent advisors--we didn't want offices--and three different rounds. First, I was Cora, a gruff-voiced middle-aged Haitian bus driver a little nervous about the pension the city promised her--'I don't know what kinds of games they'll play'--but with a little to set aside in a private retirement savings account. Then I called again as Gertrude who spoke in a thin, querulous voice about her husband had just died and left her some money but how much and where, it was all so confusing, and could he help her? Finally, I was Silvia, an expat Italian, programmer for a music portal, wanting to retire at 50: 'Enough of this work shit, you know. I want to live.'
Inwardly, silently, I found myself chuckling. Over an over they exposed themselves as Davida had predicted they would. They were all so serious, so solicitous. Even on the phone and after a few general inquiries, most of them-- 'grave old plodders, gay young friskers'--began to sketch in investment strategies that promised high returns (and security), and incidentally would net them generous transaction fees.
But it was when I was almost at the end of the third round that I got caught. It was Gary in Austin who noticed that--how could I have been so stupid, or the others so inattentive--that, though the situations were different, numbers I quoted were identical.
Have we talked before, Miss Spotelli? His suave voice hardening just a little.
No, of course not. I've only just arrived here in the United States.
What is your town in Italy, may I ask?
This was not on my script. Bologna, I replied.
Ah, I love the province of Venice.
Yes, it is a beautiful area, but not enough...
Okay, miss whatever-your-name is, what's your game? Are you trying to entrap me?
I sort of sputtered, No, I'm interested in saving for my retirement.
Bullshit, you're no more Italian than my appaloosa. And all this crap about savings. I don't believe that for a minute.
I am telling the truth, I swear.
And don't hang up. I've got your number and I can trace you down. Perhaps you're fishing for something to blackmail me with. I know your kind. Tell me what your game is, or I'll report you to the Feds. Interstate crime, that's what you're involved in, and the penalties...well, you deserve them, you sneak.
I panicked. Stupid of me, but I did, and told him what the project was. What university, he demanded. Who is the head of the program? I couldn't think fast enough to invent a school or a name, so then we had, not just me, but Davida on the hook. Damn! Damn!
Okay, he said, pretending to be mollified, here's what we'll do. I'll let it pass...as long as you give me a cheerful wake-up call each morning in your lovely Italian accent. Ah, a personal signora. Just a few minutes, but it will be so pleasant to hear you live, dear Silvia.
Just wait. One of these days, some woman he wants to return to his bed is going to get to the phone before him, and then we'll see who is whose.
Thank you, dear Silvia, he says in his hateful, superior voice. I'll be waiting for you again tomorrow.
Every damn morning. How did I get trapped into this?
There's a professional association of mystery shoppers, and the company I worked for was a member. That meant practice guidelines, codes of ethics, the whole nine yards. Mystery shopping gave me a bit of pocket money, fit easily into my schedule, and was fun. It got me to go to different stores, restaurants, offices that I'd otherwise never have visited to engage in a little bit of espionage. I got to pretend to be someone I wasn't--never lying but sometimes misleading, to exhibit an innocent nosiness, make disingenous requests, and, when alone, jot down surreptitious notes on my phone. Some of the situations I saw deserved to be reported, so it felt legit.
When my friend Davida at the business school asked me to help her privately with a research project because she couldn't have enough funding for a licensed company, I thought, why not freelance? How else is she going to get out of the Catch 22 of young academics: no funding without findings, no findings without funding. If caught I could be blacklisted, but how could that happen? I was going to be simple, just a phone survey. I could do it from home. What made it attractive was that made use of something I'm proud of, my flair for accents.
From early on, I could sound like someone I wasn't, an old woman like grandma Beavis, one of the help like Marcie Mae, an Indian like the storekeeper Sajit. I could pitch my voice high or low to capture different registers. I could tell dialect jokes readily switching from voice to voice. My mother was always asking me when I was a girl and she had her friends over for coffee, 'Sarabeth, why don't you show us how a Yankee gives directions,' and I'd stand in the circle of chairs on the lawn, strike a pose, put on a broad Maine accent that I got from an old Bob and Ray recording of my dad's with lots of 'theeeahs' and 'caaaan'ts', and send them into convulsions.
So I was able to make multiple calls to the same place sounding like different people to see if I'd be treated differently. My job was not to press them or trap anyone, but simply to get aggregate data. So, using Davida's script, I presented myself as just a voice, a name, a need and a story: Hello. my name is ... and I'm looking for a financial advisor.
It was a big project-David was a good friend--involving calls to nearly a hundred independent advisors--we didn't want offices--and three different rounds. First, I was Cora, a gruff-voiced middle-aged Haitian bus driver a little nervous about the pension the city promised her--'I don't know what kinds of games they'll play'--but with a little to set aside in a private retirement savings account. Then I called again as Gertrude who spoke in a thin, querulous voice about her husband had just died and left her some money but how much and where, it was all so confusing, and could he help her? Finally, I was Silvia, an expat Italian, programmer for a music portal, wanting to retire at 50: 'Enough of this work shit, you know. I want to live.'
Inwardly, silently, I found myself chuckling. Over an over they exposed themselves as Davida had predicted they would. They were all so serious, so solicitous. Even on the phone and after a few general inquiries, most of them-- 'grave old plodders, gay young friskers'--began to sketch in investment strategies that promised high returns (and security), and incidentally would net them generous transaction fees.
But it was when I was almost at the end of the third round that I got caught. It was Gary in Austin who noticed that--how could I have been so stupid, or the others so inattentive--that, though the situations were different, numbers I quoted were identical.
Have we talked before, Miss Spotelli? His suave voice hardening just a little.
No, of course not. I've only just arrived here in the United States.
What is your town in Italy, may I ask?
This was not on my script. Bologna, I replied.
Ah, I love the province of Venice.
Yes, it is a beautiful area, but not enough...
Okay, miss whatever-your-name is, what's your game? Are you trying to entrap me?
I sort of sputtered, No, I'm interested in saving for my retirement.
Bullshit, you're no more Italian than my appaloosa. And all this crap about savings. I don't believe that for a minute.
I am telling the truth, I swear.
And don't hang up. I've got your number and I can trace you down. Perhaps you're fishing for something to blackmail me with. I know your kind. Tell me what your game is, or I'll report you to the Feds. Interstate crime, that's what you're involved in, and the penalties...well, you deserve them, you sneak.
I panicked. Stupid of me, but I did, and told him what the project was. What university, he demanded. Who is the head of the program? I couldn't think fast enough to invent a school or a name, so then we had, not just me, but Davida on the hook. Damn! Damn!
Okay, he said, pretending to be mollified, here's what we'll do. I'll let it pass...as long as you give me a cheerful wake-up call each morning in your lovely Italian accent. Ah, a personal signora. Just a few minutes, but it will be so pleasant to hear you live, dear Silvia.
Just wait. One of these days, some woman he wants to return to his bed is going to get to the phone before him, and then we'll see who is whose.
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